


A Beer-y American Twenty-Thirst

by reymanova (costiellie)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, sorrynotsorry about this title tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 10:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7753723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/costiellie/pseuds/reymanova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a part of Team Engineering's celebration for Fitz's birthday. </p><p>This fic takes place in 2008, on Fitz's 21st birthday. Hence the title. Don't worry, I hate me as much as you do.</p><p>Beta'd by AgentCarter15!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Beer-y American Twenty-Thirst

Fitz was rummaging around between the couch cushions looking for the TV remote when Jemma came bounding into the room. “Are you ready for tonight?” she asked excitedly.

He paused in his search to look up at her quizzically. “Ready for what?”

“Fitz, it’s your _twenty-first_ birthday,” she said, clutching onto his arm. "Don’t you know what that means?”

He merely raised an eyebrow. “I’m one year closer to death?” 

“Ugh, Fitz,” Jemma replied, rolling her eyes. “It means you can finally legally drink here in the states! So get ready, because we’re going out tonight.”

“I thought we’d decided on having a movie marathon and eating chocolate cake until we exploded.”

“No, Fitz,” she said, “ _You_ decided that.”

“Exactly. And it’s my birthday, so shouldn’t I get to decide?”

“Oh, come _on_ , Fitz, turning 21 is a very important milestone in American culture. Give me one good reason why you shouldn’t embrace the tradition of going out to the bar and celebrating.”

Fitz, ever the dramatist, tapped his chin as if he were thinking hard about it before shooting her a deadpan look. “Oh, I don’t know, Simmons, maybe because I’ve been legally able to drink at home for _years_.” Jemma crossed her arms. “And as you well know, I’m not American. There’s no need to embrace all those silly traditions.”

“I seem to remember you quite enjoying our Thanksgiving celebration.”

“Okay, but that tradition is _delicious_. This tradition mostly just entails getting blackout drunk and puking for three days afterwards.”

“You don’t have to get blackout drunk, Fitz. And I would never let you get so hungover that you puked for three whole days — you know I’m not that irresponsible.” When Fitz still looked unconvinced, she finally gave in and played her ace. “If you say yes to this, tomorrow we can eat the giant chocolate cake that I may or may not have ordered and watch all of Firefly and Serenity, which I may or may not have gotten you on DVD as part of your birthday present.”

Fitz’s eyes lit up. “Can we eat cake for breakfast?”

Jemma rolled her eyes — he was a 21-year-old child, that’s what he was — but, as she was prone to do, she gave in to his puppy eyes. “Fine, you can eat cake for breakfast. But I will not be joining you in that endeavor.”

He smiled broadly. “Okay, we can go out tonight.”

 

——

 

Within a few hours, Fitz was properly buzzed, but as far as Jemma was concerned, he was still far too mopey given the occasion. “C’mon, Fitz,” she said. "It’s your birthday. You’re drinking legally. All is right in the world. Why are you still so dour?”

“It’s not as fun when you can’t drink with me,” he whined, setting down his latest beer and wiping a bit of foam off of his mouth.

His answer took her by surprise a bit. It was… quite sweet, really. So she dragged his pint closer to her and said, “Whoever said I can’t drink with you?”

Fitz huffed and ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “Uhh, your birth certificate. United States of America federal law.” He picked up her right arm by the wrist and tapped on the giant X scrawled in black permanent marker on the back of her hand. “The bouncer who drew this on you and made you pay a cover charge to get in."

She smiled mischievously. “And when has that ever stopped us?” Still faced with a skeptical Fitz, Jemma picked up her purse and rummaged around it for a bit before emerging victorious, plastic container full of purple liquid in hand. “Anyway, why did you think I brought nail polish remover?”

He raised an eyebrow over his beer as he took another sip. “Because you’re Doctor Doctor Jemma Simmons and always prepared for everything?”

“Well, yes,” she conceded, “ _but_ , in addition to that, nail polish remover is notorious for its ability to remove permanent marker from human skin. I could also use hand sanitizer, but that takes awhile, and while rubbing alcohol is more effective than nail polish remover, I didn’t have any on hand and I didn’t get the chance to steal some from the lab yesterday, so this is what we’ve got. It’s a really interesting chemical reaction, actually—“

“I got it, Simmons, I got it,” Fitz said, cutting her off. “But still, I wouldn’t risk trying to order a drink yourself.”

“Of course not, Fitz. That’s what I have you for,” she said, a bit of a twinkle in her eye as she inconspicuously glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then leaned forward and stole a swig of his drink.

“So you’re drinking _my_ birthday drinks, huh?” he asked, but he was smiling. 

“I’m paying for all of them anyway, Fitz,” she said, rolling her eyes. "You’ve got nothing to complain about.”

“Okay, maybe so,” he said, feigning seriousness for a moment before breaking out into a smile again, "but what happened to being my designated driver?”

Jemma slapped his arm playfully and stole another sip. “Fitz, neither of us actually owns a car, and we live a five-minute walk away. Now drink your damn beer.”

 

——

 

When Jemma entered his still-lit room, Fitz was sprawled atop his covers with an arm slung over his eyes. With the night’s wrinkled clothes still on, his hair mussed up, and the the front of his shirt still wet from the glass of water Jemma had forced him to drink — and he had subsequently spilled on himself — he looked positively disheveled. 

For all his grumbling about the stupidity of this particular American tradition, Jemma mused, Fitz had really gotten fairly drunk. She may have been a good bit buzzed herself, but Jemma was certain she’d only ever seen Fitz drunker than this once, when one of the cadets at the Boiler Room had bet that Fitz couldn’t drink him under the table. (Fitz won, to be fair, but felt it for a good 24 hours after.)

“You good?” she asked, trying to contain a smile.

He moved his arm so he could look at her, his eyes soft. “Mhmm,” he hummed. 

“Okay. I’m going to leave you now, okay?”

“M'kay,” he mumbled in response, shifting around a bit to find a more comfortable position, his back mostly to her. “Thanks, Jem.”

At this moment Jemma was glad that Fitz was facing away from her, as she found herself blushing a bit. He’d never called her that before, _Jem_ — even several years into their friendship, he only ever called her Simmons. Jemma he used ever so occasionally, but Jem was a new one. It felt weirdly intimate. Not in a bad way, of course, just… in a new way. 

“You’re very welcome, Fitz. I hope you had a good birthday.” She turned to leave, quietly padding to the door.

“You’re my best friend.” 

Jemma paused, hand on the lightswitch, and smiled slightly to herself. “You too, Fitz.” She turned to take one more glance at him, only to be greeted by closed eyes and a little snore. The man’s propensity for falling asleep really was unbelievable, she thought, rolling her eyes good-naturedly and laughing slightly. She flipped his lightswitch off and crept across the threshold, still looking in his general direction despite the dark. “Goodnight, Fitz,” she whispered, gently pulling his door shut behind her.

 

——

 

While Fitz didn’t quite puke for three days, he did find himself feeling particularly sick the next morning. But the chocolate cake for breakfast and Jemma’s half-pitying, half-fond smile — well, they made him feel quite a bit better. Of all his birthdays, he certainly couldn’t say this was the worst.


End file.
